Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  The conversation between Congressmen Elbridge Gerry and Gouverneur Morris is fictional. However, it does convey the feeling in Congress toward generals Schuyler and St. Clair. Based upon the loss of Fort Ticonderoga, and the subsequent ongoing retreat of their army, Congress passed two resolutions, and the president of the Congress, John Hancock, issued a congressional order that was delivered to both men. A congressional inquiry was to be conducted into their conduct, and they were to report to General Washington’s headquarters, ostensibly to face courts-martial (Ketchum, Saratoga, p. 335).

  In support, see also Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 400–401.

  Fort Stanwix

  August 6, 1777

  CHAPTER XXVII

  * * *

  British engineers and red-coated regulars had invaded the pristine forests in 1758 to build Fort Stanwix, at the place where the headwaters of the Mohawk River turn from their southerly course to wend their way one hundred ten miles west and empty into the mother river, the Hudson. They took pride in its walls, built of a double row of pine tree trunks sunk deep in the ground ten feet apart and thrusting twenty-five feet into the air. The space between the walls was filled with earth and rock. More than one hundred yards square, the tops of the walls afforded broad walkways, with notches for cannon ports and openings for riflemen. The guns commanded a field of fire for hundreds of yards.

  Forgotten after the French surrendered to the British in 1763 at the end of the Seven Years’ War for the control of the American Northeast, the fort became a wreck until 1776, when the American rebels suddenly saw a need for it in their war with the British. Colonel Peter Gansevoort, tall, well-built, strong features, fair, tough-minded, was sent with a command of six hundred men to bring the fort up to fighting condition and prepare to hold it against any British assault. Once again men pitted themselves against the wilderness, and nature allowed them to reclaim their fort—a tiny, fragile, expendable in the great scheme of the wilderness.

  Gansevoort did his job well, and the British came to do theirs. Colonel Barry St. Leger hacked a road through the forest and built breastworks a few hundred yards from the heavy walls on three sides of the fort. He left the south wall unopposed, believing an impassable swamp rendered it useless to either the Americans or the British.

  Thus, with the opposing armies gathered and facing each other, the time had come for the test of arms and men.

  * * * * *

  “Right there, sir. See?” The excited young private’s arm was raised, pointing over the south wall of Fort Stanwix. The nine o’clock morning sun had turned the headwaters of the Mohawk River into a bronze ribbon meandering west outside the fort’s thick walls.

  Lieutenant Colonel Marinus Willet, short and stocky, squinted, searching, before he saw them—three men slogging in from the swampy bog south of the fort, one in front, two behind, five hundred yards away. The lead man had no weapon. The second man carried two, the third man one. The distance was too great to know who they were, or if their weapons were rifles or muskets.

  The tall, slender private suddenly jerked up his rifle and laid it over the dirt-filled wall. “That man in front’s an Indian, sir, a painted red savage like the ones who’s been raiding. Another hundred yards, and I can hit him from here.” He eared back the hammer on his Pennsylvania rifle, settled the thin foreblade on the incoming man’s chest, and waited, calculating distance and wind.

  “Wait,” Willet ordered, deflecting the rifle barrel. “Those two behind! Aren’t they the two new scouts we sent out three days ago? I forget their names.”

  The private thrust his head forward, eyes narrowed as he studied the men. “Could be, sir. That second one’s a white man. Looks a lot like the one from Boston.”

  “I think it’s them, bringing in a prisoner. Keep your rifle on them until we’re sure.” He turned to shout at the next picket on the wall, “Hold your fire. They’re friendly.”

  At that moment the third incoming man raised his weapon high over his head with both hands, the universal sign they were coming in peace.

  “See there, sir, that third one’s signaling. I think he’s the white man that dresses like an Indian. I heard he was raised Iroquois.”

  When the men were two hundred yards out, Willet straightened. “It’s them. I’ll let them in.” He hurried down the wide walkway, behind the trails of the two cannon with their muzzles thrust into the gun ports, and descended the stairs two at a time down to the open parade ground. He trotted to the south gates and called to the corporal, “Open them. Scouts coming in with a prisoner.”

  The heavy gates creaked as they swung open, and as Billy, Eli, and the third man darted through, the corporal and his three-man detail threw their shoulders against them to close them once again, then lower the heavy crossbar thumping into its four brackets.

  Eli spoke in Iroquois to the Indian in front of him. The man stopped, wild-eyed, half-crouched, ready, certain that the startled, curious soldiers who came running meant to kill him. On Willet’s command, the soldiers stopped in a loose circle around him as he faced the terrified Indian. Billy came to attention while Eli remained behind, his rifle pointed loosely at the small of the Indian’s back. All three of them waited, dripping swamp water and mud from the waist down.

  Billy spoke. “Corporal Weems and Scout Stroud reporting, sir.”

  Relief showed in Willet’s face. “We were getting worried. I see you’ve brought a prisoner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Follow me. Colonel Gansevoort’s waiting.”

  The circle of soldiers opened, and Willet marched across the parade ground while men pointed and remarked at the three new arrivals—one painted Indian and two filthy, stubble-bearded white men, trailing swamp water and mud. The small detail stopped at the door to the office of Colonel Peter Gansevoort, and Willet rapped loudly. They heard, “Enter” from within, and Willet swung the door open.

  Gansevoort stood behind his desk in the square, plain, rough-finished office, and his eyes swept the three men puddling swamp mud and water on the floor planking. He understood instantly what had happened.

  “Glad you’re back safe. Any trouble?”

  Billy answered. “None, sir. We brought back a prisoner for questioning.”

  “I see you came in through the swamp.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s the only place the British left open.”

  With his native, hardheaded Dutch practicality, Gansevoort wasted no time. He ran a critical eye over the frightened Indian. “Where did you get this man?”

  Eli answered. “From St. Leger’s camp.”

  Gansevoort turned to Eli. “What’s his name?”

  “Oryontyngha. Christian name’s Thomas.”

  Gansevoort was aware that Eli had not saluted, but he ignored it. “Does he have information?”

  “A sub-chief. He knows pretty much what they’re planning.”

  “What is it?”

  Eli locked eyes with Gansevoort, and the room became silent. “Siege. They’re going to start with their cannon today or tomorrow.”

  Gansevoort pursed his mouth for a moment. “The whole force?”

  “The whole force.”

  Gansevoort gestured to chairs and a bench, and Billy and Eli sat. The Indian backed up to the wall and refused to move. They left him standing. Gansevoort continued. “Do they know how many men we have here? Our condition?”

  “Yes. Carleton told St. Leger you had sixty men and almost no cannon, and that the fort was a wreck. Claus didn’t believe it. He sent his own Indians to scout you. They know you have more than six hundred men, and somewhere near fifteen cannon, and that the fort’s ready for battle. They figure with your food supply you can last about a month.”

  Gansevoort’s eyes widened. “They’ve scouted us? When?”

  Eli shrugged. “Maybe ten days ago. While they were building their road and breastworks out there.”

  “How many cannon do they have?”

  “Twenty, light ones.”
/>
  “Only twenty, light guns! You know that for a fact?”

  “Yes. We went into their camp and counted. When Carleton told St. Leger you had almost no guns, and only a handful of men, St. Leger figured he wouldn’t need more than twenty light guns. It was Claus who had the sense to scout you out. Now they plan to use what guns they have and starve you out.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Eli pointed to the Indian.

  Gansevoort continued. “Do you trust him? Is he reliable?”

  Eli nodded.

  Gansevoort paused to order his thoughts, then asked, “How many men do they have, and who are they?”

  Eli drew a counting stick from his weapons belt, and ran his knife blade over the notches, counting. “Two hundred redcoats. Twenty men to run the cannon. Eighty Hessians. Between six hundred and eight hundred Indians. And about four hundred Canadians and loyalists. Altogether, about fourteen or fifteen hundred men.”

  “What tribes of Indians?”

  “Iroquois. Seneca. Tuscarora. Ojibwa. Mohawk.”

  “Who leads them?”

  “Sir John Johnson is in overall command. Brant and Sayehqueragha lead the Indians.”

  “I know Brant. What about the other one?”

  “He’s older. As smart and tough as Brant.”

  “Cornplanter?”

  “Didn’t see him.”

  “Ask the Indian.”

  Eli turned to the Indian, standing like a statue, staring at them, concerned only with how and when they were going to kill him. Eli spoke in the guttural, flowing Iroquois language. The Indian did not move as he made a three-word answer.

  “No. He doesn’t think Cornplanter is there. Blacksnake is.”

  “Blacksnake?”

  “Yes. A chief. He can give us trouble.”

  Gansevoort accepted it and moved on. “Why did they send that man—Captain Tice—in here two days ago under a flag of truce to offer us terms of a surrender?”

  Again Eli spoke to the Indian. The answer was longer, choppy.

  “St. Leger knows he doesn’t have enough guns for a proper siege. He hoped Tice could persuade you to surrender without a fight. That’s why he’s had all his men setting up log and brush breastworks out around the fort where you can see them, and why he paraded the Seneca that came in yesterday. He hoped it would frighten you. If Tice failed to persuade you to surrender, he was under orders to at least get a good look at what you have inside the fort.” A smile passed over Eli’s face. “When you blindfolded him coming in and going out, he didn’t get one look, and it angered St. Leger.”

  Gansevoort’s sharp blue eyes glittered. “Good. It appears I had better call my officers together to plan our defense of—”

  Eli cut him off. “There’s more.” Gansevoort stopped and the room went silent as he waited.

  “Yesterday a Mohawk woman named Gonwatsijayenni sent word from Canajoharie to St. Leger. She said Nicholas Herkimer’s on his way here with a thousand militia to help defend the fort. Herkimer was in Oriskany yesterday. Could arrive here today, if it’s true.”

  Gansevoort gaped. “General Nicholas Herkimer? Who’s this Indian woman?”

  “Her Christian name’s Mary Brant. She’s the wife of Sir William Johnson and the granddaughter of Chief Hendrick.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “If Mary Brant said it, I do. She stands high in Indian councils.”

  Gansevoort’s eyebrows raised. “A woman?”

  “A woman. They have their say.”

  Gansevoort leaned forward for a moment, mind racing, when Eli interrupted, his voice low, intense.

  “If this Indian knows what Mary Brant said, so does Joseph Brant. And if Joseph Brant knows it, he’s not going to let Herkimer come on through to this fort. He’s going to set a trap out there somewhere and ambush him. My guess is that most of Herkimer’s people will never get here unless someone goes to tell him what he’s walking into.”

  Gansevoort stiffened, and at that moment everyone in the room flinched at the sudden banging on the door. Gansevoort called, “Enter,” and a sweating, panting young lieutenant burst into the room, gasping as he blurted, “Sir, three men have just come in from the south. They say they were sent by General Nicholas Herkimer. Urgent message. What shall I do with them, sir?”

  “Bring them here this instant.”

  “Yes, sir!” The winded young lieutenant spun on his heel and forgot to close the door as he pounded out into the parade ground. Three minutes later he returned, leading three men who were soaked from their waist down, shirts and faces splattered with mud. They came to attention and saluted Colonel Gansevoort while their leader spoke.

  “Sir, I am Adam Helmer. With me are John Demuth and John Kember. We have been sent by General Herkimer to inform you that he and four companies of militia and some members of the Tryon County Committee of Safety and some friendly Oneida Indian scouts are on their way here. They left Oriskany very early this morning. They should be arriving sometime after noon.”

  “Do you know his route?”

  “I think from the east, sir.”

  “You came in from the south.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gansevoort asked his next question and held his breath. “You’re sure he won’t come in from the south?”

  “Quite sure, sir. His column would never make it through that swamp. I believe he’ll come in on the east road. He thinks he has enough men to fight his way through if he has to. We are under orders to tell you that when we have delivered this message, he wishes you to fire three cannon as a to signal to him. Then send out a force of men to meet him and guide him in.”

  For ten seconds the only sound was the buzzing of flies and insects while Gansevoort battled to organize his jumbled thoughts. If he comes in from the east, he’ll have to come through St. Leger’s lines. His mind cleared and he spoke with authority.

  “Very well!” He turned to Willet. “Colonel, take two hundred men of your choice and one light cannon. Pick a route that will avoid heavy contact with St. Leger’s forces and go bring General Herkimer in. As you leave the gates, order the men on the east wall to fire three cannon, at ten second intervals.”

  “Yes, sir.” Willet strode out the door and broke into a run across the parade ground.

  Eli stood, rifle in hand. “I’m going.”

  Gansevoort raised a warning hand. “We might need you here.”

  “What if Willet doesn’t find Herkimer, or gets there too late? There’s ten places between here and Oriskany where Brant could take down Herkimer.”

  Gansevoort stared at him for three seconds before he nodded. “Go.”

  Eli glanced at Billy and moved out the door at a trot, Billy right behind.

  * * * * *

  General Nicholas Herkimer drank long from his wooden canteen, then squinted upward at the morning sun. We’ll be there mid-afternoon, if we can hold this pace. If Helmer and Demuth and Kember made it through, why haven’t we heard the three cannon shots? And where’s the column Gansevoort was to send out? I think we better bivouac right here until we hear those guns and—

  “The men are talkin’, sir.”

  Herkimer started and turned to look up at Ebenezer Cox, who stood to his right, slightly behind him. It was the same Ebenezer Cox who had joined him in the council with Joseph Brant at Unadilla, short weeks ago. Cox was married to the daughter of George Klock, who months earlier had held Brant and some of his warriors at musket point to humiliate him with accusations of stealing cattle. The hatred both Klock and Cox held for Brant was legendary. It was Cox who had suddenly confronted Brant at the Unadilla council to hotly accuse him of breaking the ancient Iroquois promise to remain neutral in conflicts between white men, and ordered him to keep his Indians out of it. In minutes Brant had his men armed, ready for battle, and it was only Herkimer’s intervention that avoided a massacre on the spot. Lacking sufficient officers for the march to save Fort Stanwix, the Committee of Safety had restored
to Cox his former rank of colonel in the militia.

  Herkimer jammed the stopper back in his canteen and demanded, “Talking about what?”

  “Sitting here. They’re concerned.”

  “Concerned?”

  “Yes, sir. Afraid we haven’t got the stomach to move on.”

  Herkimer stood, anger rising in his chest. “You mean me, don’t you? They think I don’t have the nerve to lead them in.”

  A crooked smile formed on Cox’s whisker-stubbled face. “Well, now, sir, I didn’t exactly mean—”

  Herkimer cut him off, loud, hot. “Right now we’re waiting for the cannon signal from Fort Stanwix, and for a column to come lead us in. We don’t have scouts out, so we don’t know what’s in front of us, or beside us, or behind us. Go tell your men the most ridiculous thing we can do right now is move blindly forward.”

  Cox was still smiling his crooked smile. “The men know all that, sir. But the way they see it, we got enough men to fight our way right on through. If we draw enough of the British and Indians into the fight, it might save Fort Stanwix. That’s what the men are saying, sir.”

  Something inside Herkimer snapped. His voice dropped, and his eyes were points of light. “All right, tell the men to get onto their feet right now. We’re ready to move.”

  Cox beamed. “Yes, sir!”

  * * * * *

  Major John Butler turned in the midmorning sun and raised an arm to point. “Colonel, Brant’s coming up from behind with two Indians. Looks like they’ve been running.”

  Colonel Barry St. Leger pivoted to watch Brant cover the last fifteen yards and stop, facing him, two Indians on his left. The two were stripped to the waist, breathing hard, painted, sweating, tomahawks and knives in their belts, muskets in their right hands. St. Leger watched Brant’s stolid face, waiting for an explanation.